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There is a whole list of things that make up Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz. It’s long and intricate, with a table of contents, categories and subcategories and bullet points.
Buried deep somewhere under his “things that are unequivocally true but that Alex would rather not think about too much” heading, right beneath Alex’s debilitating fear that he’s going to be a terrible father (again, he tries not to think about it) is this:
Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz doesn't get depressed.
He’s been upset, he’s been devastated, to the point where he thought he might not actually survive the hurt he’s experiencing, but that’s not the same.
Alex has worked himself to the bone, bitten off more than he can chew, said yes to every single question asked, given everything to everyone, until he’s so badly burnt out that it takes him days, sometimes weeks, to recover.
But that’s not the same.
Alex has seen depression, he knows the shape it takes in his loved ones, the darkness it comes with, and comparing what he’s experiencing with that would take away from people who actually do suffer. They have no choice, there’s no stopping it for them.
Henry once described his depressive episodes as molasses slowly but surely filling him up, until it almost drowns him from the inside out, and Alex can't relate to that, at all. Because where Henry’s dark days sneak up on them both until one day he’s enveloped in shadows, Alex’s hit him like a thunderbolt from the blue. Out of nowhere, when he least suspects it.
And he only really has himself to blame. Alex is, nine out of ten times, the sole cause of his own downward spirals.
It’s just that there are periods of his life where he gets so wired up, so filled to the brink with energy, that he needs to let it out somehow. Periods where he fills up his days with work, and running, and Henry, and cooking and yapping, and movies and more running, and more work and always more Henry and before he knows it the day has turned into night and Alex is still awake, still wired up, and so he keeps working, he keeps going because he needs to get all of it done so he can move on to the next thing.
It usually begins with a sense of just pure, unadulterated joy. Everything seems to be going his way, things are finally falling into place, and he’s getting shit done and he’s happy, and in love, and life is just so fucking good, there’s no way anyone else has it this good.
That’s how it starts.
Then, it continues.
When Alex is on such a high from life, from love, all he wants to do is be with Henry. Inside Henry. On top of Henry. Preferably several times in row, until they're both so wrung out they can't move. He jokes a lot that he's insatiable, but there are times when he truly, really is. Days where all he can think about is Henry's hands, Henry's mouth, Henry's cock. Alex chalks it up to… Well, Henry, and Alex being so ridiculously in love with his partner that he simply can't keep his hands to himself.
It builds.
There's the studying, how he'll disappear into himself, into whatever work is in front of him until he gets that rush of knowing he put 100% into something, something that he’s fucking great at, and that people won’t hesitate to tell him how fucking brilliant he is, how well he’s done, and he’ll get that gold star and he’ll feel invincible.
It expands.
Sometimes he'll be itching to do something of value, desperate for that boost of being perceived and admired, because he has so many opinions, correct opinions, mind you, and everyone should hear them. A sure-fire way to get that rush is social media. He'll open the apps, all of them, and publish more than a couple posts that he knows will catch everyone's attention and that'll make Zahra’s blood boil. He never pushes it too far, never to the point where it can hurt his family or their work, but he definitely toes the line of what is appropriate. He discusses, he argues, he lets everyone hear just how right he is, and how they should all agree. Even people fight him on it, he doesn’t care. Because he knows and those who matter knows. The rest will just have to get with the program.
It skyrockets.
This sounds worse than it is, but there is also the drinking. It's not like he drinks all the time and it's not like he can't stop once he gets going. He'll have a glass of wine with dinner, a celebratory beer after turning in a particularly difficult assignment in school, and no one knows how to nurse a good scotch like Alex does. But sometimes, sometimes, he wants to let loose, he wants to feel completely unafraid, and drinking? Drinking definitely helps with that. He doesn’t get sick, he doesn’t pass out. He drinks, and he never has to stop or pace himself. Alex is practically unstoppable. When things are at their most intense, he’s not even hungover the day after. How’s that for a superpower?
All of this to say, Alex has a great appetite for life. He has so much he wants to do, and he knows he can get it done, so he takes the plunge, jumps off the cliff, he always has and always will.
It’s just, sometimes, he falls flat on his face and passes the fuck out. He’ll spend a day or two or five, if his unrelenting ambition and his undiagnosed ADHD allows, wrapped in the blanket his abuela made for him years ago, unable to cry but desperate for the pressure over his chest to cease and fucking desist.
But it’s nothing, it’s simply his body saying enough is enough. It's just exhaustion.
Alex has heard it all his life; He’s tired, exhausted, burnt out because he's working too hard, he needs to pace himself, he needs to relax. And it makes sense. There’s a lot going on inside him, so much so he has trouble keeping it at bay, and it just takes over.
It’s part of that ACD charm, as Nora says sometimes. Intense feelings that he wears on his sleeve.
Intense. Plenty of people have called him intense before. Impassioned, passionate, spirited, animated, and every other synonym known to man. In the end it’s just a thousand different ways to say he’s too loud. Too much.
Alex used to take it as a compliment because at least that meant he was memorable. It meant that when people, inevitably, became too overwhelmed by his general Alex-ness and fled, they would remember who they left behind. That was always something, a tiny, if not a little pathetic, consolation price.
Now, as he’s getting older, he can’t help but notice how some say it with a sneer, or a teasing smirk that’s more mean than it is loving. It makes him feel more like a nuisance, something or someone they need to get rid of.
Even with his family he can see the signs. He can tell when his parents lose interest in whatever hyperfixation he’s stuck on in the moment, and how June or Nora, albeit lovingly, will roll their eyes when he gets especially heated during an argument. He knows they mean nothing by it, that it’s just one of those things.
It’s not until Henry – beautiful, kind, patient, loving, Henry – that Alex realizes what it truly means to be loved, not in spite of, but because of. Rather than simply tolerating Alex’s less appealing qualities, he sees all of Alex, every little quirk, every up and every down, and he treats each part like it’s something to be treasured.
Henry loves every bit of Alex, something that Alex had thought, on his darkest days, maybe wasn’t going to happen to him.
When Alex gets too lost in the cesspool that is Twitter and fights with every right wing troll he comes across, Henry gently takes the phone from Alex, and when Alex tries to argue (because of course he does), Henry gives him a kiss and tells him:
“It can wait until tomorrow, Alex.”
When it’s three a.m and Alex is halfway through an assignment that isn’t due for another four weeks, Henry grabs his hand and pulls Alex away from his laptop, insisting he’s done for the night.
“Productivity is not a virtue, my love. Let’s go to bed.”
Sometimes, not always, but sometimes when Alex is desperate for Henry, for his touch and his sounds, and everything Henry, he’ll slow Alex down, hold on to Alex's wandering hands, and tell him that it’s okay. That it’s clear that this isn’t what Alex really needs right now, that he should rest, and that Henry will still be there when he wakes up.
“I’m not going anywhere, Alex. It can wait.”
The next morning, Alex usually wakes up feeling more settled in his skin, and clear headed enough to see that he was getting riled up for no good reason. That whatever he was supposed to do tomorrow, today, wasn’t all that important. Instead he spends the rest of the day watching his pace, allowing himself hours of nothing, allowing himself to reset so that tomorrow isn’t quite as intense.
When Alex feels too much, wants too much, and can’t handle any of it, Henry is there, with a soft smile, and a gentle reminder of how there is always tomorrow. Alex has never felt so cared for in his life. Henry sees, and he understands, everything that makes up Alexander Claremont-Diaz, list and all, and yet, Henry loves him.
But then there are times that, even with Henry, even with all of that love, even with the promise of endless tomorrows, Alex can’t stop himself. He can’t contain it. Henry will try, and try, and try but Alex keeps going. Sometimes they fight over it, Henry begs him to calm down while Alex accuses him of not understanding, of not seeing the big picture. Sometimes Henry simply watches on in silence as Alex keeps going until he inevitably crashes.
Because he always crashes.
That’s the one constant in all of this.
Alex keeps going, unable and unwilling to stop, until he runs himself into the ground.
He knows all this. It’s been like this for years. He recognizes all the signs, the sparks at the tip of his fingers, the fluttering in his chest, the euphoria that builds. He knows that once it really gets going, it’s hard to stop, so he should nip it in the bud.
Thing is, he doesn’t want it to stop. It feels good. It feels wonderful, in fact, so why should he limit himself? Surely something that feels so good can’t be bad for him? A few days in bed, a few days of shame and exhaustion and struggling to find the motivation to simply stay alive, is worth it.
Right?
That’s what he’s trying to tell himself as he’s on day seven of another one of his… episodes, if you can call it that. Henry’s been away for almost two weeks now, and Alex struggles to stay grounded when Henry is away, so he finds ways to stay distracted. Distracted quickly develops and before he knows it, he hasn’t slept for three days and he’s rearranged the living room bookshelf twice. Alex knows better than to touch the one in their study, at least. Still, Henry will probably change it back.
But that’s fine. It’s fine because Alex has felt good all week, almost unreasonably so. He'd gotten so much done.
He goes to all of his classes, even though he’s been up every night preparing and perfecting whatever assignment or presentation or literally anything he could get his hands on, just to get ahead of things. He decides to order that new dresser that he knows Henry’s been eyeing and he spends all night putting it together. The new dresser leads him to cleaning out his closet and donating his clothes to charity, because he can’t just put his old clothes in there, but then he realizes he may have gone overboard with the cleaning so he goes on a small, completely reasonable, online shopping spree.
And it’s fine.
The night before Henry is due to come home, Alex goes out with his classmates.
And he gets drunk. He drinks more than he has in a good while and he gets absolutely plastered.
Throughout the night he notices Amy’s worried looks, but she doesn’t step in. And good, he’s glad, she shouldn’t, because Alex is fine. He’s more than fine, he’s fucking fantastic.
Except, maybe he isn’t. The sun is about to rise when he gets home and he can feel it. He can feel his body beginning to fail on him.
His skin is crawling, everything is heavy, there’s a pressure across his chest that he desperately needs to get rid of, because Henry comes home today and Alex has things to do, and it needs to be perfect. He’s been so productive all week, he can keep it up for one more day.
He tries.
He really does.
Around lunch time he’s starting to see it for what it really is. He’s crashing and it’s going to be a bad one. But he keeps going. He’s going to have some good comfort food ready for Henry, and David is going to get his favorite treats, the homemade ones Alex learned to make because they’re better for David than the store bought crap. He’s going to make sure the house is clean, that it’s warm and cozy and a soft place to land for Henry, something Alex knows he craves after having spent this long in London, dealing with his grandmother and the royal circus of it all.
But Alex is unable to focus on any one thing. He keeps jumping from cleaning, to cooking, to scrolling on his phone, and nothing works. When he eventually forgets David’s treats in the oven, and they burn to a crisp, Alex drops everything.
He can feel a panic attack coming on. It’s fine, he tells himself. Sure, time is running out but it’s fine because he’ll order home some food for him and Henry and, and, and David can get his normal treats, it’s okay. Except it’s not okay and Alex is pretty sure he’s about to combust, be torn apart at the seams.
A run. That’s what he needs. He’ll go on a run, and he’ll come back and he’ll have time to make things perfect. He leaves without a second thought, announcing to his Secret Service detail that he’s going out. They don’t even have time to change.
Once out the door, he takes off. He runs and runs and runs and runs and he feels bad for the agents running after him, in their suits and everything, but he can’t stop.
Alex isn’t wearing the right shoes, he realizes, when the soles of his feet begin to sting. Eventually he can feel the blood seeping through his socks and he knows he’s gone too hard, too far. He loses his balance and just barely manages to catch himself before he faceplants on the pavement.
“Alright, Alex, that’s enough for today,” the Secret Service agent says now that they’re standing still. He’s probably right, because Alex is seeing double and his feet hurt, so much so he has to sit down on the ground. He thinks he’s probably dehydrated because all he’s had to drink today is coffee.
“We’ll call a car to pick us up, yeah?”
Alex nods as he tries to catch his breath. It doesn’t take long for a car to pull up and he’s ushered inside. Cash is driving and he catches Alex’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“You okay?”
“Don’t tell mom,” he gasps in response, still unable to breathe properly. Cash sighs.
“About you going on a two hour run in jeans and sneakers? Not exactly a report worthy event, kiddo.”
He wants to tell Cash not to call him that. That he’s not a kid. But he’s too tired to argue, so he remains quiet. They get back to the brownstone and Alex hobbles up the steps, refusing help from the agents. Before he has a chance to get to the door, it flies open and there, as beautiful as ever, is Henry.
“Alex, what on earth–?”
Alex tries to tell Henry how ridiculous it is that he can look so good even when he’s spent hours on a plane, but it comes out more as a whimper. Henry says something to Cash, Alex can’t really hear what, then pulls him inside and guides him to the bench they keep in the foyer.
“What were you thinking?” Henry huffs, as he kneels to pull off Alex’s shoes. “The oven was on, the baking tray still on the counter. I thought–”
He spots the red stains on Alex’s socks and he looks up, suddenly aware of what’s going on. It’s happened again. His anger is quickly replaced by worry and a gentleness that Alex is certain he doesn’t deserve.
It’s all he needs before Alex finally allows himself to break. He falls into his boyfriend's arms and he cries.
“I can’t do it, Hen, I can’t. There’s too much, all the time.”
“Oh, love,” Henry breathes into the crook of Alex’s neck. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Before he knows it, they’re in the shower. Henry is helping him wash up as Alex cries, cursing himself over his inability to pull through, to do the bare fucking minimum, to do what is expected of him. He calls himself a failure, a fraud, a burden. He berates himself to the point where he has nothing left to say, nothing left to think.
Henry just tells him it’s okay. That he’s okay. That it’ll be okay. Alex can’t stand it, how Henry responds with love, when Alex deserves the opposite. It just makes Alex hate himself even more.
Once out of the shower, Henry makes sure to bandage Alex’s feet. Then he gets Alex something to eat. It doesn’t taste like anything and he has to fight the urge to spit it out. After only a few bites, he gives up and instead he drinks the water Henry’s placed in front of him. He takes a couple painkillers, also at Henry’s urging, then he’s pulled into bed.
“I wish you’d see what I see,” Henry whispers when they’ve settled. Alex is so burnt out he can barely keep his eyes open, he can barely register the words that Henry is saying. “I wish you could see how good you are. Good, and strong, and important, and loved. Just as you are.”
“Am not,” he murmurs. “‘S not enough.”
Henry tightens his arms around him. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
Alex wants to argue, tell him it’s not true, but Henry squeezes even tighter and kisses the back of his head. “Sleep, darling. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
When Alex wakes up several hours later, Henry is still in bed, leaning against the headboard as he’s reading. Alex allows himself to stare for a moment, taking in the sight of his boyfriend. The love of his life. Jesus’ tits, he’s in love. Henry glances over and smiles when he notices Alex is awake.
“Good morning. Or, afternoon, rather.”
“Really?” Alex croaks and turns to look at the clock. Almost 3 p.m. “Fuck.”
His entire body is aching, sore from the running and heavy from sleeping too long. There’s a push from behind his eyes, like he’s deep under water and the pressure is slowly building, rearranging his insides.
Henry hums and reaches out to comb through Alex’s unruly curls. Alex leans into it, and tries to relax.
“Feels good,” Alex sighs as Henry massages his scalp.
“You scared me,” Henry says, eventually and a fresh wave of shame ripples through Alex.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just…” Alex isn’t sure what to say, because he doesn’t know. After all these years, he doesn’t understand why he gets like this or why he allows it to go so far. To get this bad.
Henry scoots down to lie face to face with Alex.
“Don't get mad,” Henry whispers. “But I think… I think you should look into, maybe, talking to someone. A professional.”
Alex should have seen that one coming. It’s not the first time the subject of therapy has come up. It’s caused quite a few arguments the past couple of years. Mostly because Alex is aware that Henry is right. Alex needs to see someone, but he can’t bring himself to admit that. He’s not even sure why he’s so resistant, what deep rooted issues cause him to fight tooth and nail to stay out of therapy.
“They’re just going to tell me what I already know. ADHD, a deeply warped sense of self worth tied to my desperate need to be perfect.”
“Maybe,” Henry murmurs. He’s trying to sound casual, but it comes out strained, laced with something else.
“You think there’s more to it,” Alex says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. Because going off Henry’s tone of voice, the look in his eyes, the determination that slowly settles on his face, it’s clear he thinks Alex isn’t just intense, or passionate, or overwhelmed by his ADHD.
“I…” He starts, clears his throat, treading carefully. “I’m not going to try and diagnose you. But I have my suspicions.”
Normally Alex would probably take offense to it, to the implication that something is wrong with him, that he needs to be fixed. However, it’s never that with Henry. Henry approaches Alex from a place of concern, and of unconditional love.
But the prospect of Henry being right is too big. It’s too scary. Because isn’t that always the case? Something changes, breaks, and unconditional love eventually becomes conditional. What if this is the thing that breaks them?
Henry loves Alex not in spite of, but because of all his quirks and his ways of moving through the world. Alex knows that, Henry makes sure he does, even when Alex has his doubts.
But.
But.
What happens when he loses those parts of himself? What will be left for Henry to love?
“They’re going to say I need medication.”
“I take antidepressants.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Alex buries his face in his pillow. He can’t think about this. He can’t, it can’t be like that, he can’t be like that.
“Alex, please, look at me.” Henry tugs slightly at Alex’s hair, and Alex follows the motion, meeting Henry’s tortured gaze. It’s enough to make Alex tear up. “You need help.”
Henry’s pleading, begging, and Alex wishes he could tell him yes, without hesitation. But he’s so scared of what it means, of how it could change everything.
“If it was me,” Henry continues. “If I was the one in pain, would you hold it against me? Would you think less of me?”
“Of course not.”
“So, why won’t you extend that same grace toward yourself?”
Usually this is where Alex would tell some half lie about how it’s different for him, that Henry’s pain is more valid, more real, but he’s too tired. He’s fucking exhausted. So, instead, he tells the truth, the whole truth, etc. So help him God.
“What if I… change? What if I change so much, what if I’m not me anymore? And what if… what if it’s not the same me that you fell in love with? And what if…”
He can’t find it in himself to finish the sentence. He just closes his eyes, unwilling to look at Henry, to see Alex’s very real fear land between them like a bomb, ready to blow up in their faces. Maybe it’s unreasonable. Dramatic, even. But when he’s like this, when he’s sinking fast with nothing to grab onto, when pieces of him have already died and have yet to be resurrected, it just makes sense.
Alex is empty, a shell, and his brain needs to fill Alex up with something, something that’ll keep him sustained until the fog clears and he’s back to his normal self, and the only thing that’s left to work with is fear and doubt and every bad thought and every feeling he’s ever had.
His brain works in overdrive and manages to twist Henry’s love into something ugly and turns Henry leaving Alex into a scenario that’s not only reasonable, but inevitable.
He feels Henry’s hand on his cheek and it’s so gentle, so warm, that Alex can’t hold back. He sobs and leans into Henry’s touch, but his eyes remain squeezed shut.
“I know it’s hard to believe for you, right now, but I’m not leaving you. Not for anything, but especially not over something so important as your right to feel peace.”
“You don’t know that, though, what if–”
“Alex, listen to me,” Henry says, voice firm, urgent. “I love your fire, your passion, and your stubbornness. But that’s not all of you, and it’s definitely not the only reason why I love you. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but what I do know is that, no matter what, you'll still be Alex and I'll still be here.”
Alex can feel himself nodding, can feel himself lean in toward Henry, rather than away, and in the blink of an eye, he's in Henry's arms. Alex pushes his face into Henry's chest, allowing himself to become completely enveloped, Henry's broad shoulders acting as a wall, shielding Alex from the outside world.
“I’m not going to force you to do something you’re not ready for, but all I want–” Henry’s voice cracks and Alex cries harder. “All I want is for you to not feel like this. Because you’re suffering, love, and there’s only so much I can do, that any of us can do, to alleviate it. Please.”
Alex keeps nodding, keeps crying, as Henry keeps telling him he’ll never leave, that there’s nothing wrong with him, that he’ll love him no matter what. Henry holds him and tells Alex all the right things.
Once he’s calmed down, Alex tilts his head up, finally, finally allowing himself to look at Henry. His eyes are red, his cheeks wet with tears, and his face twisted into something tortured and hopeless. Alex reaches up to wipe the tears away and Henry does the same.
Alex hasn't actually agreed, or said he'll seek help. But as he stares at Henry – beautiful, kind, patient, Henry – it becomes clearer by the second that the decision is made. Not for himself. As much as Alex would like to say he is doing it for himself, it wouldn't be true. Seeing Henry like this, hearing his pleas, his reasoning, Alex knows it's a choice he's making for Henry, and that has to be enough, at least for now.
“What do I do now?” Alex asks eventually. “I mean, who do I… Talk to? Who do I call? I guess I could ask Zahra, but I'm not sure I want to do that.”
“We'll figure it out.”
“But I can't just Google it and call myself. Like I know there’s confidentiality and shit, but since when has that stopped people? Surely there should be NDA:s involved? And, like, I don’t want to talk to just anyone, I want it to be someone I can trust and– Maybe, is there anyone at the shelter you could ask, I'm sure they have like a brain doctor directory and—”
Henry leans down to kiss him. It’s short and sweet, more a way to shut him up than anything else, but Alex melts into it anyway. Once he’s relaxed, Henry pulls back ever so slightly.
“I just–” Alex starts but Henry shakes his head.
“I know. It’s okay. But we don’t have to deal with that today. Just breathe, darling.”
Alex takes a sorry excuse of a deep breath and barely releases it before he opens his mouth to ask, once again, what he should do now. Henry flexes his fingers, squeezing Alex’s face.
“Breathe.”
This time he listens, mirroring Henry's deep breathing, all without breaking eye contact. It’s intimate, almost too intimate, and Alex can feel himself tear up again.
“There we go, love,” Henry whispers and kisses Alex’s cheek. “So good.”
Alex whimpers and tries to get even closer.
“This is all we have to do today, okay? Breathe. The rest… It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Okay. Yeah,” he agrees, and burrows his face into the crook of Henry’s neck. “That sounds good. Tomorrow.”